


days of Mercy

by taran



Series: Jack atremble, Jack be nimble [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Abandoned and orphaned children, Angst, Death of unnamed characters, Gen, Small reference to starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taran/pseuds/taran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wind howled alone through the trees and over blankets of unbroken snow that he had laid down for them. </p><p>~ ~ ~ ~ </p><p>Jack learns the lesson that is learned by all; for some, sooner than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	days of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Short and sad, another drabble on darker themes. Hopefully the next of the series will be a bit happier.

He would find them cold, still, nothing more than small pinpricks of warmth that guttered fast in their cradles of snow. Some of them dropped prayers like from startled hands, prayers as if their disbelieving belief was enough— prayers to whom, he could not ask. Others tried to call for help, and Jack called with them until he realized he was nothing more than silence echoing through snow and quiet. Bitten tongue silence, he would press back the Wind with the back of his hand like fringe out of a child’s face and send their voice along on its back with the hope it would reach someone. Eventually, their voices dripped away like icicles in the sun, growing thinner and thinner until the Wind howled alone through the trees and over blankets of unbroken snow that he had laid down for them.

( _He had done it,_ something in him twisted, tight and ugly, _he had done it for them, for them, not this, not— not—_ )

One of the first, a young man in buckskin breeches, Jack dug out of the snow drift of his sleep and found that he had long since fled, leaving nothing but blue chapped lips behind that kissed the blue sky from the curve of his grave. His eyes stared through frost and the long dearth of death, accusing.

Jack never did try again. Once was enough.

Sometimes, though—sometimes, they were found. The orange pinpricks in the night came like will-o-wisps, but instead of leading them deeper into the dark, this time they led the people home. On those nights Jack brushed the snowflakes from their eyelashes and drew the Wind back from their frantic flames and frantic faces and allowed them to reclaim what his element had taken. It felt like victory, like loneliness.

Sometimes, though. 

Sometimes, there was no coming back. The children with the hungry eyes that ate in not sight but only light, dull as coal when they huddled against buildings or under pine covers. No tears. If there were, they froze. They could not see him when he crouched close ( _not this, not this, please_ ) and with pale dry hands stole their breaths away and led them into a deep sleep that he hoped did not know the pain of too many missed meals and tiny bruised feet. Those ones that came to him broken, Jack stayed with them; sped them along until the breaths so lightly lifting from their chests would drift away and all was left but what meant most.

He learned death. He learned it many, many times. And he learned that even his tears froze in the merciless morning air, so full of mercy was he

( _for them._ )


End file.
